Wrong, All Wrong
by KatiKat
Summary: So, what if Lindsay Leikin actually shot Shawn on the runway...


Title: **Wrong, All Wrong**  
Disclaimer: All standard disclaimers apply here.  
Genre: Gen  
Words: 2200  
Spoilers for: 2x03 _Psy vs. Psy_  
Summary: So, what if Lindsay Leikin actually shot Shawn on the runway...  
Notes: A big thank you goes to my wonderful beta yamitai! **  
**

**Wrong, All Wrong**

by KatiKat

For Shawn, the psychic business had always been about fun. Having fun and making others have fun... and annoying them a bit too but that was just a bonus. He felt like one of those amateur sleuths in the who-dun-it novels he would never admit reading. Playing a psychic allowed him to spend time with Gus, his best buddy, too but also with Juliet, who he felt might finally be the "one".

And so when Lindsay grabbed him and pressed her gun to his head on the runway, he still thought no biggie. The Chief was there and Lassiter was there and Juliet too and let's not forget the weird FBI dude. There was no way Lindsay could get away with it and with him. He was sure that they would argue for a bit, but in the end, the fake FBI psychic would put the gun down or someone would do something really heroic and earn himself praise from the FBI itself. And they would go home and laugh about it.

But in the end, it wasn't a He who did something. It was a She, the sweet old stenographer, who pushed her suitcase with all her might and bumped into them, startling Lindsay and making her flinch and release Shawn. But also pull the trigger.

The bang was so loud that Shawn didn't actually hear it. Though he felt like someone slapped him really hard in the back of his head and it made him stumble forward almost drunkenly. It reminded him so intensely of all the times his father boxed his ear for doing something stupid and unlawful that he almost turned around, so sure that he would see Henry standing there with an annoyed expression on his face.

But he didn't turn around. As a matter of fact, he suddenly felt really weird and sleepy, his knees all wobbly and eyelids oh so heavy. He frowned and searched out his friends' faces with drooping eyes, not understanding why everything he saw was tinted red, as if the gentle breeze had brought in red dust from a far away desert. And why were they looking at him so anxiously? Even Lassiter, Lassie, Carlton...

"Hm?" Shawn mumbled questioningly, then his legs turned into jello and he dropped to the ground before anybody could step forward and catch him. He didn't really feel the hard ground smack him in the face but he did feel the strong jar. And before his eyes closed, he noticed the crimson droplets on the dark asphalt and with a startled "Oh," he realized that it wasn't red dust he saw, it was his own blood.

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Gus never liked hospitals. Maybe it was because he worked for a pharmaceutical company, maybe because Shawn had always been rather accident-prone when they were kids and since they were joined at the hip, Gus had spent an unhealthy amount of time in the waiting rooms of ERs.

He sat on the ground, leaning against the wall, hugging his knees loosely to his chest. His eyes were fixed on the opposite wall of the long, seemingly neverending hallway that was all white and shadows and crying, anxious people. Gus didn't want to look at himself. He looked as if he was coated in red paint. But it was blood, in all the creases, under his fingernails... on his shirt, trousers, even on his shoes. His best friend's blood. Shawn's blood. At that thought, his mind blanked out again and for long minutes, he just sat there, staring.

It was Henry's voice that returned him back to reality. Henry Spencer could be really loud when he needed or wanted to be. He was standing at the nurses' desk with Karen Vick, yelling at her and at the head nurse, demanding to know "What the Hell happened to my son?"

After the initial flicker of eyes in the direction of Shawn's father, Gus didn't look at him again. He just couldn't. He felt responsible for what happened. Yes, his brain told him that it was total bullshit but he couldn't help it. Gus knew that what he and Shawn were doing was dangerous; it wasn't the first time someone had taken a shot at them. But it was the first time the attacker hit his mark. In the past, Gus never believed that anything really bad could happen to Shawn. Because, you know, it was Shawn, the luckiest man under the sun. But today, luck deserted him just when he needed it most. And Gus still wasn't sure what actually happened.

He remembered the FBI psychic, Lindsay Leikin, he remembered the plane and the gun and the stenographer who just wanted to help. He remembered how she cried and cried and apologized over and over again while the medics were working on stabilizing Shawn enough to transport him to the hospital. He remembered Agent Ewing hugging the old lady, for once behaving like a normal, civilized human being. He remembered Lassiter and the Chief and Juliet disarming Leikin who was obviously in a state of total shock, babbling "I didn't want this. I didn't want to shoot him. I didn't want to..."

But what he remembered most vividly was Shawn...

The shot took them all by surprise but the most astonished expression was the one on Shawn's face. For a second, it looked as if a bright red halo surrounded his head as the bullet hit him and blood spattered in tiny droplets, then Shawn stumbled forward, his knees folding and he hit the ground before anybody could even move. It was the silent thud of his body on the hard asphalt that set everybody in motion. It sounded so terribly loud in the silence that settled over them after the echo of the shot finally faded away.

Gus remembered everything so vividly that his stomach churned. There was so much blood and Gus was thinking that no one could lose so much blood and live. And then there were the wailing sirens and cops and EMTs and so many, many people...

There was a commotion down the hallway and Gus turned his head slowly in the right direction. A doctor in green scrubs stained with blood was talking to Henry and the Chief, with Lassiter and Juliet hanging in the background, all anxious. But Gus couldn't force himself to move. He didn't want to know because he was sure that Shawn was dead. _Nobody could lose so much blood and live_, ran again and again through his mind. And as long as he stayed here, huddled against the wall, it wouldn't be true. But he heard the doc anyway, fragmented words reaching his unwilling ears.

_Head wound... removed the... heart stopped... blood loss... brain damage... coma... _

Gus shut his eyes tight, hands covering his ears. But it was not enough. Not nearly enough. He scrambled to his feet and ran towards men's room, barely reaching the toilet before throwing up violently and sinking to his knees.

_Shawn, you idiot. You fucking idiot..._

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_

Henry expected the call from the moment Shawn joined forces with the Santa Barbara Police Department. He expected to hear that his son had been shot, stabbed, even killed. But he never expected this.

Slowly, reluctantly he entered the ICU cubicle as he had every day since the shooting. Every step cost him a year of his life. As he lowered himself into the waiting chair, eyes fixed on the still figure of his son, he felt much older than his real age. He felt ancient. No parent should see their child like this. It just wasn't right. He rubbed his sweaty palms against his jean-clad thighs, then gingerly covered Shawn's hand that lay so unmoving on the white bedcovers.

It was dark outside, so only the soft light above the bed lit the small room with glass sliding door. In its white light, Shawn looked ghastly, his skin ash grey, lips bloodless, black smudges circling his eyes, a thin tube feeding him oxygen. Under the thick white bandages, his head was shaved and it was turned a little to the side towards the room's door and the chair in which Henry was sitting to take pressure off the wound. Shawn was dressed in a simple hospital gown that hid the wires that led towards the intimidating cluster of machines that surrounded the bed. Shawn lay there completely silent and unmoving, resting in a deep, drug induced coma.

Henry squeezed his son's fingers but received no reaction. He had to swallow the desire to scream that this was not his son, that his son could never stay still for so long, that someone had made a terrible mistake. The older man had to blink rapidly because his eyes stung with unshed tears. This shouldn't have happened. Never.

Henry never wanted his son to be a cop, he never wanted him to join the police despite the lectures of what a good detective would do, despite the sharpening of Shawn's observation skills. Henry wanted his son safe, stacking shelves in a supermarket or heading an international corporation, it didn't matter to him. He just wanted Shawn to stay away from shotguns and drug dealers and the like. But for once in his life, Shawn actually decided to stick with something, not give up but finish the job for a change. To show his father that he wasn't a loser. What an irony.

He lost himself so completely in the reassuring beeping of the heart monitor that he didn't even notice someone close until he heard the shuffling noise in the doorway. Henry didn't have to turn around to find out who it was. He already knew. Gus. Always Gus.

Henry squeezed his son's fingers, frowning. He knew that it was irrational to blame Gus for what happened to Shawn. But Henry couldn't help it. Shawn had always been reckless and rash and Henry always relied on Gus to be the voice of reason, to pull Shawn back from the edge of the cliff before Shawn decided to jump. But not this time. This time Gus joined Shawn, joined this psychic nonsense and Henry couldn't tear his eyes away from what came out of it.

"Mr Spencer." Gus' voice was only a ghostly whisper.

Henry's ire only increased hearing the pained tone of his son's best friend and he turned around to lash out, to finally give his anger a free reign. But taking his first real look at Gus, he swallowed his anger, feeling instantly ashamed. Henry knew that Shawn's best friend had been there since they brought Shawn in, leaving only to take a shower and change clothes, coming in at the beginning of visiting hours and not leaving until the nurses shooed him out kindly in the evening. Gus was staying with Shawn whenever the doctors allowed him to, not eating, not sleeping, just being there...

But Henry never truly understood until now. Looking at Gus' grey complexion, the hollows in his cheeks, the haunted look in his eyes, Henry realized that the shot had wounded Gus as deeply as Shawn. Maybe not physically but raw emotions were taking their toll on him, aging him, hollowing him. And Henry understood that Gus didn't need Shawn's father to lay the guilt at his feet, he was doing a good job of that himself.

Swallowing everything he wanted to say, Henry nodded tiredly. "Gus."

Realizing that he wasn't being kicked out, Gus stepped hesitantly inside. "How... how is he today?" he asked, stepping closer to the foot of the bed, hands stuffed awkwardly in his pockets.

Henry shook his head and turned back to his son, releasing his son's hand and clasping his hands in his lap. He didn't like showing emotions in public. Even if the public consisted of only one man he'd known his whole life. "Still the same," he answered with a sigh. "They had to drain the blood from his brain again last night. The doctors... they don't know."

Gus nodded and didn't ask further. The men kept silent, watching the young man they both loved fiercely, the silence between them awkward and uncomfortable with Shawn not there to ease it. And it was Gus who tried to break in the end, shuffling his feet nervously.

"Mr Spencer, I... I'm sorry about..."

Henry raised his hand sharply, voice cold, face set in stone. "Don't. Just don't, Gus. This is not the right time or place. Let's talk about it after..." He fell silent. Yes, after... what? After Shawn gets better? After Shawn dies? Henry didn't know. But whatever would come after would be better than now. Because even though he understood that his bitter feelings towards his son's best friend were unfair, he feared that once he started talking, he would yell and all the things he had been holding in for days now would spill out and turn their exchange ugly and sour. And the last thing he wanted was to make a scene in his son's hospital room.

Yes, they would wait and talk later and maybe the _after_ would come soon.

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And it did come.

Eventually.

The End


End file.
